Lost
by TheAUWalker
Summary: It was still hard to believe that he was the flatmate of Sherlock Holmes. Despite how much that man infuriated him, Sherlock's was John's best friend. Best friends that helped each other out of the dark. Johnlock, one-shot.


Sherlock was staring at the wall again, motionless, his fingers still on the armchair.

John waved a hand in front of his best friend's eyes, a line of worry creasing his brow.

It had been happening again and again, but John wasn't even sure what 'it' was.

John's stomach rumbled.

"Sherlock." The doctor started. "D'you mind if I move some of your things off the counter?"

There he was, trying to hard to pull the corners of his mouth up and adopt a normal tone of voice. He was trying so hard to be regular, for everything to be the same.

Sherlock didn't answer, didn't even blink.

"Ah. Well." John said quietly, glancing down at the floor for a minute. "I'm not quite sure of the last time you ate, so I'll just put the fingers in the freezer, then."

With some regret, John moved away.

For a seemingly endless amount of time he stared into the depths of the soup and the orange bubbles of the grilled cheese, stirring and prodding, his own body rigid. His mind was a million miles away.

When he finished dinner, he placed a plate in front of Sherlock, who still hadn't moved. John rested his own plate on his knees and stared at the world's only consulting detective for a few silent minutes.

It was still hard to believe that he was the flatmate of Sherlock Holmes.

It still came as a shock sometimes. The memories played through John's head, running a reel of the downright strange his life had become since he met Sherlock. John never regretted any of it, he would never have wanted to not show up at 221B Baker Street. They had been through so much, and to have it come to a screeching halt-

John pressed a fist to his lips, trying to control his shaking.

The fall. It still stabbed through his chest as one of his most painful memories. He understood why but not yet how-but that didn't matter. It mattered that Sherlock was alive, that his best friend would still be sitting by his side.

Things had been...different.

Moriarty was dead, and the relief coursing through John's body was not unlike the relief he felt when he turned to see Sherlock simply looking at him across the tables of early risers.

It was a vivid memory.

That odd, odd feeling of being watched had still not left after Sherlock's death and John was simply at coffee. Alone, watching the steam curl around the rim of his cup.

He had just turned and thought he was seeing a ghost.

Sherlock was sitting across the cafe, steam framing his face and then they met eyes.

John stood up sharply, his silverware rattling.

He wasn't ready, not yet, not ready to be haunted.

Except it wasn't a ghost, it was real, alive Sherlock.

Things had just gone on from then.

Sherlock kept taking cases with Mycroft and Lestrade popping into their lives every now and then, it was like old times except there was no Moriarty.

There were always criminals on the rise, however.

And things went downhill.

Sherlock didn't take as many cases and would space out more often, sometimes in the middle of a conversation or dinner. He wouldn't respond to anything the first time it happened, and then John found out quite by accident what it was.

Lestrade thought he was thinking, simply thinking, and made a quiet side comment to John.

It was the oddest thing-more of the randomest, just something unrelated entirely, and Sherlock snapped his head back forward and continued talking like nothing had happened.

But John wasn't listening, he was staring at the back of Sherlock's head.

It happened more, and John built his guess up.

Sherlock's brilliant mind was beginning to pull him back, and unless someone acted as an anchor and told him something that he hadn't known at the moment, he could be stuck forever.

But it was tremendously difficult to find something the great Sherlock Holmes didn't know.

Mycroft provided John with a list, a list of things about people Sherlock hadn't met. Something to say when it happened.

But eventually, the list ran out.

John was left on his own to come up with something that would bring Sherlock back, and it was not a light job. People helped out the best they could, but time went on, and with it the line of things they could say.

"Admirable of you, Watson." Mycroft said one rainy afternoon, glancing up into John's lost eyes. "You're the only thing keeping him from slipping."

There were things that you knew you could count on, like the kettle. You knew when you put the water in and turned on the flame that it would boil. You knew it was going to happen, and you were confident in the kettle.

But even the kettle, which had seemed so strong and reliable, fell.

John did not realize that Sherlock's condition was leeching onto him for a while. He thought it was bad dreams, lack of sleep, stress.

It was poor Mrs. Hudson who expressed her fears.

John suddenly snapped to attention on a Saturday with no memory of how he had gotten downstairs, the last of a story of her friend's funeral leaving Mrs. Hudson's lips.

"Please, John." She had said, eyes filling up with tears. "Not you too."

John didn't want to believe that what was affecting Sherlock was happening to him too. He wasn't worried about himself, he was scared that if he was gone, nobody would be around to help Sherlock.

There was a nasty thought nagging at the back of his mind, and no matter how hard John fought to push it back, it rose to the surface.

-o-o-o

It became hard to tell dreams from reality, and the only peace John had was being able to see Sherlock.

They were both at least sane when they were together.

Sherlock had to stop taking cases and had stopped speaking altogether. John could only form the outlines of sentences, using a great amount of effort to communicate.

It was hell.

Mrs. Hudson was supporting them, Mycroft, Sarah, Molly and Lestrade were helping the best they could, but John could see the worry etched in the drawn lines of their faces.

They were a burden.

It was getting worse and worse, escalating to the point of breakdown.

And then, it was done.

Peace and quiet, one last forceful jerk away from reality.

They were together, holding hands, and John's lips were already forming the words. He already knew what was going to happen, he already didn't care.

Sherlock meant more to him than his own life.

The nasty little thought-growth in the back of his head was the truth, it had always been fate.

Sherlock Holmes was a genius and he knew everything, everything, John had to scrape for things that were direct enough to hit him that he didn't know already. There was only one things left, only one more thing.

But Sherlock knew everything, and would not be able to leave without John's help.

John knew that he would be staying. He knew that after time his mind would crack and he would be nothing more than a shell, worse than he already was.

But Sherlock would be restored.

And that was what mattered.

He was already taking the detective's fingers in his own, already taking his last breath of prescence and sanity.

John knew that Sherlock would disappear from his mind, he would go back to the real world and John would stay behind and be overwhelmed.

There was no other way, but John didn't want one.

The man's blue eyes which John had always loved-the color reminded him of sky-met his.

Sherlock's lips formed his name and in an instant he knew.

His face contorted in horror, in anger, in protest, but a soft smile was already playing across John's lips, and he spoke the one last thing that he could.

"I love you, Sherlock."

And then he was gone.


End file.
